The Traitor's Blade by Kevin Sands (fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

I’d known this day was coming, of course—with no master, the guild would never let me take the test to become an apothecary—but now that it was here, I couldn’t control my nerves. Who was this new man? What was he like? How could he—how could anyone—ever replace my true master?

The king had one answer for me, at least. “Woodrow Kirby is his name. Do you know him?”

I shook my head.

“One of my private apothecaries.” A pair of spaniels vied for the king’s attention; he settled the squabble by putting them both on his lap. “He’s served me since my return.”

Lord Ashcombe opened the door and spoke to the servants outside. A moment later, Woodrow Kirby, apothecary, entered the room.

He looked to be in his late fifties. He was an average-size man, with a bit of a belly, heavy-lidded eyes, and sagging jowls. He wore a long, black wig, and his clothes hung loose on his frame.

I’d already placed Barbara on the floor and stood, heart hammering in my chest. Tom stood automatically beside me, still holding one of the dogs.

The apothecary bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty.”

“Master Kirby. This is the boy I was telling you about.”

Kirby looked me up and down. What he was hoping to see, I didn’t know. His face didn’t betray any feeling. “Rowe, is it?”

“Yes, Master,” I said. My voice cracked, which left me mortified. “Christopher.”

The apothecary glanced over at the king. “With His Majesty’s permission…?”

The king nodded.

“List the four humors,” Kirby said.

So. It was to be a test. “Blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile,” I answered.

“Odd’s fish, even I know that,” the king said. “Ask him something hard.”

Kirby thought for a moment. “Describe briefly anything you know about how to produce spirits of salt.”

“Um… by Valentinus’s process? Or Glauber’s, Master?”

He blinked at me. Charles covered a smile. The king is showing me off, I realized. I felt rather like one of his spaniels.

“Glauber’s,” the apothecary said.

“Heat salt in the presence of oil of vitriol,” I answered. “Distill and condense the vapor.”

“Harder, Kirby, harder,” the king urged. I wished he’d stop.

The apothecary thought a little longer this time. Then he said, “List as many ingredients as you can that are used in the production of the Venice treacle.”

This was a difficult question—namely because Venice treacle had sixty-four ingredients. Except not only had Venice treacle been a specialty of Master Benedict’s, but, after the trouble during the plague, Magistrate Aldebourne had contracted me to produce as much of it as I could. I knew this answer cold.

I began with the most famous ingredient: snake venom. “Viperinorum,” I said. “Trochiscorum scilliticorum, hedichroi radicum gentianae, acori veri, valerianae…”

I continued, the king grinning openly as Kirby stared in amazement. I think I missed a few—I lost count somewhere around ingredient thirty—but I’m not sure the apothecary noticed.

“What did I tell you?” Charles said proudly.

Kirby looked me up and down again, this time with a new scrutiny. “You were Blackthorn’s apprentice.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“That explains a lot,” he muttered.

“Well, Master Kirby?” the king said.

“You do understand, sire, he may need to make appearances at my laboratory?”

“He’ll be at your disposal as necessary.”

“And he’ll still have to pass a final exam to become a journeyman.”

Charles smiled. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“No,” Kirby said. “I don’t suppose it will. Very well, sire. I accept.”

Charles nodded his thanks. With a bow to the king, and a final glance in my direction, Kirby left the room.

I was thoroughly confused. I had no idea what that last exchange was about, and the apothecary’s abrupt departure left me wondering what I was supposed to do. I’d assumed I would follow him, but the king hadn’t given me permission to leave.

“Should I go with Master Kirby, sire?” I said.

The king shook his head. “Richard will look after you. Always a delight, boys.”

And so we were dismissed. I was still reeling; it took a jerk of the head from Lord Ashcombe—and an elbow in my side from Tom—to get me moving. The spaniels stayed behind.

“My lord…?” I began as soon as we were in the hall.

Lord Ashcombe raised a hand to silence me. There was a pair of guards by the door, and servants standing farther down the passageway. He wanted to wait until we were alone.

Once the three of us had found an empty corridor, Lord Ashcombe stopped. He spoke in a low voice. “Tomorrow, Kirby will notify the Apothecaries’ Guild that he has taken you as an apprentice. If anyone asks, you will identify him as your master.”

“I thought he was my master,” I said, more confused than ever.

“No. That’s just for show.”

“Then… who is?”

“You are being apprenticed to Alexander Walsingham, 1st Earl Walsingham.”

I didn’t recognize the name. “Is he another of His Majesty’s private apothecaries?”

“No,” Lord Ashcombe said. “He’s the king’s personal spymaster.”

CHAPTER

12

I STARED AT LORD ASHCOMBE, stunned. “You want me to become a spy?”

“Haven’t we had this discussion before? You already are a spy, Christopher. This just makes it official.”

I didn’t know what to say. My whole world was turning upside down. I felt like I’d lost all control of my life.

Then again, maybe control was just an illusion. In Cripplegate, I’d done whatever I was told. With Master Benedict, I’d done that, too. Following orders was, after all, the role of an apprentice. Learn, practice, cook, clean. Run errands. Whatever the master says.

Yet it never felt like that with Master Benedict. I’d loved being an apprentice—his apprentice. He’d taught me and cared for me, and I’d adored the work, even when the days were long. I’d wanted to become an apothecary.

When he was murdered, and I was left on my own, I’d been heartbroken—and I’d also been free. No one around to tell me what to do. I’d have given every ounce of freedom to have him back. But he wasn’t coming back. He lived only in my heart.

And being free didn’t bring any opportunities. I’d still learned, practiced, cooked, cleaned, ran errands.